The Prince and the Player

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I grumble, looking down at my stupid foot. “I was going to try drowning.”

“This is better. Use it to your advantage. I’ll check back later to see how it’s going.”

He pats my head and returns to the living room, where I hear him telling Rowan goodnight and to keep him posted on my status. I finish my text just as Rowan returns to my side.

“Ready to go up?” His low voice is warm, and I give him a smile.

“If I’d known you’d be carrying me all around the place tonight, I’d have eaten less dinner.”

I’m in his arms in one quick sweep. “You’re not heavy. I already told you.”

We’re back in that intimate embrace, his dark, square jaw and shimmering eyes mere inches from my face. I wonder if I should try to kiss him? Is that too fast? Reggie would probably suggest I get the party start

ed, but I don’t entirely get Crown Prince Rowan Westringham Tate. He’s such a serious person. Instead, I put my hand behind his neck, allowing my fingers to lightly thread in his dark hair.

He stops to open a large, white door, and we step into a bedroom that almost makes my eyes bug out. It’s similar to the dining room with beige stone walls and exposed wood beams lining the ceiling. A huge bed is at the back wall beside another enormous, arched window. It’s covered in the softest-looking duvet, I know I’ll sleep like a baby in it. A brass chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and six small pictures are arranged in a pattern beside an enormous flat-screen television, which hangs above the beige painted-brick fireplace.

Rowan carries me to an overstuffed loveseat with an oversized ottoman in front of it. A tray holding a crystal decanter of water topped by a matching crystal glass, a gold-rimmed saucer with two adorable, pale-purple cookies, and two discreet blue-gel capsules on a linen napkin is on one half of the ottoman. Rowan lowers me onto the small couch and props my injured foot on the other half.

“You thought of everything,” I say as he sits beside me on the edge of the small sofa.

“I can’t take credit. The kitchen sent that up.”

His toned thigh is warm against my leg as I lean forward. “Ibuprofen, and… What are these little cookies?”

“Lavender macaroons. I highly recommend them.” He smiles and waits a moment. “Will you be okay? I’ll have one of the staff bring up a cane so you can get around.”

“I’m sure I can walk on it. You don’t have to carry me everywhere.”

“You couldn’t have walked up those stairs, but if you think you’re fine, I’ll say goodnight.”

My lip is back under my teeth. Should I go for a kiss? Reggie is going to kick my ass if I don’t at least get a kiss out of all this drama. I’m beginning to hate this con. Of all the jobs I’ve done, I never let emotions enter the picture. I feel like a bad Cinderella, playing games with the handsome prince’s heart. I don’t believe he’s as careless as Reggie makes him out to be, or as much of a threat to his country’s security.

He starts to rise, and with a heavy heart, I smile. “Doesn’t the gallant prince deserve a kiss?”

Looking down at me, I see the hesitation in his eyes. I hold my smile, even tilting my head to the side in a playful way. Something changes in him. That intimidating focus returns, and he sits beside me, closer this time.

My heart beats faster as he reaches for my cheek and pulls my mouth to his. Our lips touch, but he doesn’t push mine apart. He doesn’t plunge his tongue inside, taking no prisoners the way his brother did at the museum. Instead he kisses me gently, a few times in quick succession. It’s very tender and curious.

With a deep breath he leans back and looks into my eyes a moment. I don’t say anything. It was a very nice kiss. Nice.

“Goodnight, then,” he says and goes to the door, leaving the room without a look back.

I exhale a big sigh and lean forward to scoop up the pain relievers. My foot isn’t really injured. I know from experience, it’ll ache tonight and be fine tomorrow. I step gingerly on it and do a little skippy-walk to the bed where an enormous lavender silk gown is lying.

My mohair sweater and damp leggings are off, and I pull the giant thing over my head. It’s luxurious, soft as whipped cream, and clearly expensive. The bodice is a crisscross network of tucks and ruffles, and the silk belt is longer than my arms. I suppose it should be tied at the back, but I need to use it to lift the whole contraption up and tie it around my neck.

“I never sleep in a gown!” I whisper to myself as I limp over to the oval, full-length mirror in the corner. “I look like a little girl in her granny’s clothes!”

It makes me giggle, when I hear a soft rap on the door. It’s some maid bringing me a cane, I’m sure. What an old grandpa Rowan is, I think, shaking my head. A sexy old grandpa, I add.

I jump when I see Cal leaning against the doorjamb, dressed in loose pajama pants. His lined torso is easily visible through the thin button-up he’s wearing. The moment he sees me, he explodes with laughter.

“What the hell are you wearing? A tent?”

My face flares red. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought you something to sleep in.” He holds out a bottle of champagne. “And this to kill the pain.”